4 Hemmed In (9 page)

Chapter
Nineteen

Nothing Magic About Murder

P
inky Bjorn contacted his
Relic of the Runes
pal Harry the Hobbit. Little did he know Harry Gertner had given his name to the police in the first place.

As online gamers they used avatars, cyber
characters that were fantastical improvements on their puny dateless real-life selves. Predictably, Pinky was an elf; Harry was a Hobbit. Both had magical powers, at least in the online world of
Relic of the Runes
.

“
Are the cops looking for me
?” Pinky typed into his laptop.

“
Cops? What for
?” replied the diminutive Hobbit on his screen.

“
I know who killed Charlie Aitkens
.”

“
Whoa, man. You better turn yourself in. That’s serious stuff
.”

“
No way. I’m responsible for the murder
.”

“
How so
?”

“
I translated the runes on that witch quilt. If I hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have stole it. And if he hadn’t stole it he wouldn’t have wound up killing Charlie over it
.”

“
Who
?”

“
Can’t say
.
But it’s someone close to me
.”

“
Your dad
?
Or Teddy Yost
?”

“
Can’t say. Don’t ask again or I will use fairy dust to immobilize you
.”

“
Hobbits are immune to fairy dust
.”

“
Says you
.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Meanwhile Ted Yost was refusing to talk. And Pinky Bjorn was still missing. Wanda Bjorn had been released for lack of evidence. Nothing tied her to either the missing quilt or the murder, not even Charlie Aitkens’s own words.

With Charlie dead, the conversation overheard by Edgar Ridenour was being treated like a dying declaration. But Mark the Shark, now back from Milwaukee, told them it didn’t meet the criteria for a deathbed confession, in that the boy’s demise came days later.

Both Bill and Kathy had been released from the Aurora St. Luke's Medical Center and were now back at home in Chicago. Little N’yen was torn between his anxiousness to see his mommy and daddy and an eagerness to help the Quilters Club solve this case. He wanted to see that Viking treasure with his very own eyes.

Aggie told him not to worry, that tomorrow’s picnic was really just a cover story for their treasure hunt. With a little luc
k, he’d get to see the treasure before heading back to Chicago.

But that was before
Spud Bodkin turned up.

≈ ≈ ≈

Spud had been on the run, fearful that the same fate would befall him as happened to his friend Charlie. He’d been holed up in an Indianapolis flea trap when Lt. Wannamaker tracked him down. Spud had used his credit card to pay for the room, a mistake when the police are looking for you.

“Honest, I was gonna turn myself in,” he lied to the
state policeman.

“Sure you were,” said Wannamaker.

“I didn’t even know you wanted to talk with me till yesterday. Saw my picture on TV.”

“Well, here you are
– so talk.”

“
I didn’t kill Charlie.”

Wannamaker leaned back in his chair, one of two in the bare ISP Interrogation Room.
Folding chairs, metal table, one-way glass on the wall – the room’s total furnishings. “Didn’t think you did,” said the lieutenant.

Spud wrinkled his forehead. With his round face,
thick glasses, and protruding ears, he did look a bit like Mr. Potato Head. “Then why were you looking for me?”

“Thought you could tell me who stole the Wilkins Witch Quilt. Valued at over a hundred grand, that makes it a felony.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“But you know who did. Someone overheard you and Charlie Aitkens talking.”

“Was that who killed Charlie, the eavesdropper?”

Wannamaker shook his head slowly, like the pendulum of a
ticking clock. “Nope. We think it was the fellow who stole the quilt, trying to shut you guys up.”

“That was my thought too. That’s why I took off when I heard Charlie was dead.”

“How’d you hear?”

“On the radio.”

“So who is this fellow you’re afraid of, the one who stole the quilt. We’ll pick him up and then you’ll be as safe as a babe in his mother’s arms.”

“Sure. I don’t mind telling you
– our ol’ pal Bern.”

“Who the fudge is that?”

≈ ≈ ≈

Chief Purdue was confused by the phone call he got from Neil the Nail. “What do you mean you’ve identified the quilt thief as Bern Bjorn? I’ve got the guilty party
locked up right here in my holding cell, a guy named Theodore Yost. Works at the local chair factory.”

“No,” insisted the ISP lieutenant. “It’s a fellow named Bern Bjork. Go pick him up. Me and my boys will be there in about two hours if the traffic’s light.”

“Can’t be Bern Bjorn,” insisted Jim Purdue. “Bern manages the local Dairy Queen. He gives me extra sprinkles every time I go in.”

“You better have him in custody by the time we get there or I’ll give you enough sprinkles to choke on.”

“Hey, watch your tone. You said the murder was my case to solve. And I have – Ted Yost.”

“Well, the art theft is
my
case and I just solved it – Bern Bjorn.”

“But the same guy that stole the quilt killed Charlie Aitkens.”

“Exactly,” said the Nail, hanging up in the police chief’s ear.

Chapter
Twenty

Searching for the Viking Treasure

W
ith two separate suspects under arrest, the Quilters Club turned its attention back to the Viking treasure. Cookie was convinced it was buried at the site of the Church of Avenging Angels. Where else could it be, now that the well had proved to be a “dry hole.”

“Dry?” laughed her husband
Ben. “There was a good three feet of water in that old well. Came up to my hoo-ha.”

“Your what?”

“Never mind. Let me just say my waders had a leak and that water was icy cold. Thought I’d freeze my –”

“Ben!”

“Like I said, never mind.”

She smiled. They had married late in life. While she’d been a widow, he’d been an old bachelor.
As such, Ben Bentley still got tongue-tied around his wife when risqué subjects came up.

“Point is, you found nothing down in that well. Not even the bones of Mad Matilda.

“There was that Mason jar,” he reminded her.

She rolled her eyes. “A magic amulet of some kind. But nothing to do with a Viking treasure.”

“True.”

“So if the silver
’s not there in the well, the men who killed Matilda Wilkins must have taken it.”

Ben was eating a bowl of cereal, his mouth full. “Tha iz gun.”

“What’s that you said?”

He swallowed, then repeated: “Then it’s gone.
You’ll never find it if the old woman’s killers took it. The law never found them.”

“There’s an old legend that says they buried the money under the steps of their church. All we have to do it find where it stood
and look there.”

“What church was that?” Ben knew the countryside around Caruthers Corners
like the back of his hand. Having worked one summer as a surveyor of watermelon-growing allotments, he’d traveled every square inch of the county.

“
The Church of Avenging Angels.”

“Never heard of it.”
Ben refilled his bowl with puffed rice. He was fond of that snap-crackle-pop cereal.

“
The church burned down in 1899. Nobody remembers where it stood.”

“Like I said,
the treasure’s long gone.”

“No, we just have to figure out where
the church used to be.”

“Ga tal t’ Heni Guna.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear.”

He swallowed. “Go talk to H
oward Gunnar. He’s the oldest man in town. Maybe he’ll know.”

≈ ≈ ≈

N’yen and his cousin Agnes were watching television, a movie called
The Black Pirate
starring Douglas Somebody as a guy who pretends to be a pirate in order to rescue a princess. “Aw, they stole that plot from
The Princess Bride
. They just changed the name from ‘the Dread Pirate Roberts’ to ‘the Black Pirate.’”

“I think
The Black Pirate
came first,” said Aggie.

“When those pirates said, ‘Dead men tell no tales,’ it reminded me of the murder we’re trying to solve.”

“How so?” asked his cousin. Their grandmother had made them popcorn with lots of butter. AMC was running a day of buccaneer movies.

“Because t
he guy that stole the quilt killed that Charlie guy to keep him from telling tales.”

“You’re pretty smart for a boy,” she complimented him.

“Thanks. Now all we gotta do is figure out which one is guilty, the man who works at the chair factory or the one who manages the Dairy Queen.”

“Maybe they’re both guilty.”

“Naw, I think it’s the frozen custard guy.”

“Why’s that?”

“That boy who translated the secret message would have told his dad. I know I would’ve.”

“You’re pretty fond of your dad, huh?”

“Don’t remember my real dad. But Bill is about the best-est dad ever. I’d tell him anything. Sure hope he’s okay.”

“Don’t worry. My daddy’s up there making sure he’s okay. Your mom too.”

“Dads and moms are great, aren’t they? I didn’t have any for the longest time. Now I’ve got a whole family, including you.”

“I like my grandmother a lot,” admitted Aggie.

“And I like my grampy,” N’yen added. “He doesn’t care that I’m adoptated.”

“Adopted, you mean.”

“Yeah, that. It’s kinda special when you think about it. Out of all the boys and girls in the world, Bill and Kathy picked me.”

≈ ≈ ≈

It took Cookie all morning to round up the Quilters Club. Lizzie was already at the Garden Club Luncheon. Bootsie was baking a watermelon cake for Jim. And Maddy was working on her latest patchwork quilt while the kids watched movies on AMC.

In addition, Cookie had to contact Howard Gunnar’s great-granddaughter to arrange
for a visit. The old man tired easily, she was told, but would receive them following his afternoon nap.

“Howard Gunnar, that’s a good idea,” said Maddy. “If anyone remembers the location of that church, it would be him.”

“Ben suggested it.”

“You’ve got yourself a good man, Cookie. Going down in that well for you. Giving that land to Haney Bros. Circus to establish a town zoo. Supporting our misadventures.”

“Don’t I know it! He’s my very own teddy bear.” Although Ben Bentley had had a crush on Cookie since high school, it was only after her first husband died in a tractor accident that they got together.

“We’re all lucky gals,” said Maddy. “Finding good men to share our lives with.”

“And we’re lucky to have each other as friends,” Cookie replied – meaning the Quilters Club.

≈ ≈ ≈

Howard Gunnar had celebrated his 100th birthday only last month. Mayor Beauregard Madison had declared the day as “The Howard Gunnar Centennial” and presented the old man with a bronze plaque to that effect. The
Burpyville Gazette
ran his picture on the front page. His great-granddaughter Roberta had accompanied Howard to the ceremony on the town square.

The Quilters Club arrived in mass at the Gunnar farm.
Surrounded by the expanding town limits, the ten-acre farm was abutted on three sides by residential streets and new housing. No crops had been grown there in forty years, other than a few assorted vegetables in the small garden plot behind the weathered farmhouse.

“They’re expecting us, right?”
asked Maddy Madison. She believed in good manners.

Cookie nodded
vigorously. “Yes, I spoke to Roberta Gunnar. She’s Howard’s caretaker as well as his only living relative.”

“I brought watermelon cake,” said Bootsie. “
Jim told me the old man is fond of it.”

“I wouldn’t mind a slice myself,” grumbled Lizzie. “I didn’t have any lunch.”

“Me either,” Bootsie admitted, eyeing the cake platter in her hands.

“Behave yourself, you’re on a diet,” Maddy reminded her friend.

“I’m not,” said Lizzie. Still as slender as when she was as a high-school cheerleader.

“What do you mean you didn’t have lunch?” accused Cookie. “You were at the Garden Club bash.”

“Nobody ever eats at those things. Rubber chicken and talk-talk-talk.”

“Come along, girls,” urged Maddy. “Maybe Mr. Gunnar will share a slice or two with you.”

“He better,” muttered Bootsie. “I actually baked it for Jim.”

“We appreciate his sacrifice,” said Maddy as she stepped onto the farmhouse porch.

Roberta Gunnar was a thirtysomething brunette with plump hips and generous thunder thighs. However, she had a radiant smile, all the more noticeable with her whitened teeth. “Come inside,” she invited, holding the door wide. “Gramps is in the living room.”

“We brought him cake,” Bootsie announced, hold it up for all to see.

“Watermelon cake? That’s his favorite.”

“So we heard.”

The old man looked something like a mummy, given his wrinkled gray skin and wispy hair. But his watery brown eyes twinkled with alertness. “Don’t get many visitors anymore,” he nodded his welcome. “Everybody I know is long dead – friends, children, even grandchildren. Nobody left but Roberta here. Guess I’ll be joining them friends and relatives soon enough.”

“Aw Gramps, you’re gonna live forever,” his great-granddaughter said.

“Sure looks like it, don’t it. Never expected to see a hundred. They gave me a nice party last month.”

Cookie broached the subject. “We wanted to ask you about an old landmark.”

“Landmark? I’ve never traveled farther than Indianapolis.”

“A local landmark. A church that’s long gone,”
explained Maddy.

“Church, you say? Never was much of a churchgoer. Course I may regret that soon enough.”

“We’re trying to find out where the Church of Avenging Angels was located,” said Bootsie, handing him a slice of watermelon cake. A bribe as it were.

“Avenging Angels? That was even before my time. I’m only a hundred years old. That church burned down ’fore I was born.”

“But did anyone ever show you where it was located?” asked Lizzie, eying his cake with envy.

“Ever show me? No. But my daddy told me it was on the other side of Never Ending Swamp,
over near Gruesome Gorge.”

“Can you be more specific?” pleaded Cookie.

“Not really. My daddy didn’t think much of them Avenging Angels. Said they was witch hunters from St. Paul. Told me they killed a local woman for being a witch.”

“You mean Matilda Wilkins?” Bootsie coached.

“That’s her, Mad Matilda. My daddy said she flew about on a broomstick. Changed people into frogs. Put curses on her enemies. Guess it didn’t work with them Avenging Angels. They threw her down her own well.”

“But their church –?”

“Told you, never seen it. Was burnt down ’fore I was born. I told you that, didn’t I?”

“Gramps forgets what he says,” Roberta explained in a stage whisper.

“I can hear you, girl,” he admonished his great-granddaughter. “Lost my smell. But I still got my hearing.”

“You say it was burnt?” Cookie pressed.

“To the ground. The posse that was looking for them did it, my daddy said. They was snake handlers. My daddy said rattlers came crawling outta the fire like creatures from hell.”

“Snakes!” squeaked Lizzie. She had an aversion to snakes, mice, spiders, and bees.

“Rattlers fat as my forearm,” the old man said. Enjoying having shocked his audience. “The preacher that led the Avenging Angels used to sleep with diamondbacks, according to my daddy. Said them snakes never bit him, like they were akin.”

“Rev. Billingsley Royce, you mean?” prodded Cookie.

“Don’t recall his name. Daddy said he had the mark of Cain on him.”

“About the church
–?”

“
This sure is tasty cake,” muttered the old man. “Can I have another slice?”

“Yes, of course. Now about the church –?”

“Pretty day, ain’t it?”

≈ ≈ ≈

Another dead end. Cookie Bentley was pretty despondent. Excusing herself, saying she had work to do, she went back to her office. The Historical Society had recently moved into a small building on North Main Street. The town council thought it could become a tourist attraction, so the front room served as a museum with a permanent exhibit about the history of Caruthers Corners.

A copy of
Indiana’s proclamation of statehood.

A six-foot-tall wooden Indian in native costume.

A first-rate collection of arrowheads and pottery.

Bronze bus
ts of the town’s founders – Jacob Caruthers,    Ferdinand Jinks, and Col. Beauregard Madison.

A diorama of the
Big Fire of 1899.

Architectural
drawings of the Town Hall.

A
3-D model of the E-Z Chair factory.

A video
showing highlights from the annual Watermelon Days festival.

A horticultural poster on growing watermelons.

A display of prizewinning patchwork quilts.

Th
at rare copy of
A Personal History of Caruthers Corners and Surrounding Environs
by Martin Caruthers.

Photos of local buildings.

An antique bottle collection.

A circus poster showing the Haney Bros. on each side of Happy the Elephant.

Edwin the Enchanted Doll, basis of a local ghost story.

A collection of carnival glass.

An aerial photograph of Caruthers Corners.

The backroom was officially designated as the secretary’s office, but it was more of a storeroom with a wooden desk in the center. File cabinets and stacks of newspapers lined the walls. Boxes of uncatalogued artifacts took one corner. Shelves of donated antiques occupied another corner. An ancient cuckoo ticked over the doorway.